The Interview

"That was excellent," I told her, and I meant it as we seated ourselves back in her private suite, ready for another session. I patted my stomach. "First class!"

"I will certainly pass that on to the kitchen then. I'm told we had some awful people in a few weeks ago, perfectly dreadful, complained about everything. Absolutely everything! Too hot, too cold, tasteless, even about the bill, which is a fraction, a mere fraction of what the hotel would normally charge guests for a three-course meal. A trifle, a mere token!" 

I smiled as her voice rose in indignation. We'd broken for a late lunch at her suggestion and had, as I said, an excellent meal cooked and served by catering students from a nearby technical college. The hotel provided forty covers one lunchtime every week in one of its larger private dining rooms for local pensioners. Under the supervision of hotel staff, students cooked and served a meal planned and cost by themselves, for which the hotel charged each dinner a very minor fee. My host told me that it was extremely popular and invariably booked up months in advance.

"It’s a useful little community service, and the cost is relatively trivial; plus, it gives our head chef the chance to cast his eye over a lot of possible future employees. He’s very fussy and prefers to train talented people himself, so those he selects spend quite a lot of their final year here along with a guaranteed job. Almost all the catering staff arrived via that route likewise reception staff via their hotel and hospitality course”.

I nodded in approval. “Well, I certainly can’t fault that meal. I thought I wasn’t hungry but, well, wow!”. I paused and grinned at her. “Rather different, I’d imagine to what you feed your two-legged livestock for lunch?”

She gave a short bark of laughter. “Very different, especially as they don’t even get lunch. Why make more work for yourself and your staff than necessary? Twice a day is perfectly sufficient for their simple needs”.

“I suppose that was one of the first things you learnt at Celine’s stable?”

“No, not exactly the first” she pursed her lips thoughtfully and shook her head. “I did learn quite a lot about keeping such beasts during that visit and not just about the food, of course. I recall I was on a speedy learning curve and a very extensive one so far as human equine husbandry was concerned. She paused again and said just one word rather slowly—"Control”.

“Control!” I echoed.

“Mmmm, yes, control. That sums it up nicely, I think. Total control of the captive human equine. Total and absolute control of the beasts!” She paused and smiled in recollection. “Prior to that, I’d been little more than a jailer in London, a somewhat sadistic one on occasions but a mere warder non the less”.

I nodded. “But this was something entirely different?”

“I wouldn’t say entirely, but previously those I looked after were betwixt one life and the next awaiting rebirth, you might say,” she chuckled. 

“Reincarnation of the living. Destination heaven or hell!”

That made her laugh. “Oh, I doubt that many, indeed any of Celine’s acquisitions found much heavenly content in their new lives! Indeed, there were worse things than stable life, but not by much. Life in a stable as a two-legged pony, owned by a pretty but ruthlessly sadistic young woman, is about as near to hell as you could imagine!”

Minus the heat!” I couldn’t resist adding and then wished I hadn’t as those cold blue eyes bored into mine for a few moments before she spoke softly and with amusement. 

“Oh, there was plenty of heat on offer, and I’m not referring to the plumbing and electrics. Our stables are always maintained at a comfortable ambient temperature year-round. Of course, that’s as much for the comfort of those working there besides the well-being of the captive livestock within. After all, one can’t simply decide to take a ‘snow day’ in the middle of winter. Anyway, an animal with a bad head cold or influenza is of no use to anybody, plus being a considerable nuisance!”

“Does that happen often?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Of course, it does but only infrequently. Not as much as in, say, an office or similar workplace. The stable is a very restricted environment, but you can still suffer from the domino effect the same as anywhere else once one beast succumbs to some wretched bug! However, when I mentioned heat, I was referring to something else!” She made a slight whip-cracking motion with her right arm.

I nodded again and indicated for her to continue.

“Heat, the unlimited application of heat and control. Those were the things I experienced as never before that first morning. Before she’d even shown me all the other ponies, Celine entered Rufus’s stall, released his securing chains, then snapped a short leash onto his nose ring and led him out of the stall. I recall how impressed I was at how easily and confidently she handled the big angry beast. He followed her like a puppy, no, like some big docile old Labrador. I could see from the expression in his eyes that the last thing he wanted to do was follow at her heels, but I was to learn that the slightest pressure on that ring through his nose produced instant agony! He knew it, and Celine knew it, and she’d have given that leash a sharp tug if he showed the slightest hesitation in not doing as she wished!” 

“Control!”

She showed her teeth in a wicked smile. “Exactly. I’d never been to a horse race meeting, still, haven't for that matter, but I’d seen them on television and watching her; I was instantly reminded of that as she walked that stallion forward. The way her hand was raised, holding that leash wrapped several times around her slim wrist. It was just like watching a stable girl leading some magnificent racehorse out before the race, only Celine’s beast was no glossy sleek thoroughbred, more a sturdy workhorse but impressive non the less!”

“Beauty and the Beast, eh?”

My host showed her teeth again but this time in light-hearted amusement and then cheekily winked at me. “My, I wish I’d a hundred Euro’s for every time I’ve heard that expression over the years! True, though, the image always seems that powerful when you see some petite beauty in total control of a massive helpless stallion!

“I thought you said he wasn’t that big earlier?”

“Mmm, well, not the most impressive stallion that I have seen and believe me, I’ve seen quite a few magnificent beasts over the years. I can’t remember most of them now, of course, but I expect that he might have squeezed into the top twenty, if not in height, then certainly in bulk and male endowment!”

“How important was that the latter? I assume you meant his penis?”

That made her laugh. “Of course, what else?” Then she laughed again. “We owners are very silly people in some ways. We adore pretty filly’s and mares and handsome muscular colts and stallions, and then what do we do? We hide those pretty faces behind head harness, bit and bridle and cover up other parts of their bodies in more harness, tack and boots. She paused and grinned. “Not everything though is hidden from sight; it can take quite some time for those, er, those more modest animals to come to terms with that aspect of their new lives. Well, all of them come to that!”

I raised my eyebrows slightly, and she exploded with laughter again, knowing what my gesture meant.

“We all have our own individual little foibles, but some things are always the same—udders, for instance, or breasts to you. Personally, I have no preference, although my niece favours the larger variety for her private collection of livestock. Other owners, although admittedly not many, are at the opposite end of the spectrum, but one thing is always the same”.

“No bras, I assume?”

“No, of course not, silly! I’ve probably seen every variety of ponygirl harness there could be, but not once have I seen one that allowed the animal’s principal assets to be covered! Hell, once tits, arse and fanny are on permanent public display, your beast is already halfway to being an animal! Males are the same but often react even more wildly once they realise that their rumps, cocks and balls are entirely on view and available. The male pony, as a rule, lacks that streak of exhibitionism, we women all seem to have to a degree with our penchant for cosmetics and skimpy outfits! 

“Which is odd”, I mused, “given that throughout nature, the opposite tends to apply!”

She nodded. “Yes, courting rituals, peacocks and colourful plumage and all that. However, and more importantly, those uncovered sensitive assets in both sexes are available to be touched and handled!” She chuckled wickedly. “You know it’s never entirely the whip alone that introduces a freshly captured animal to its lowly place in the new pecking order. Equally that first time, it feels the possessive hand of its owner or trainer upon those hitherto private parts that are no longer private. They may be attached to the animal, but they no longer belong to the animal and will be controlled by those in authority over the beast” she paused and then added. “Which means just about every other person it will ever meet!”

“Apart from those in harness”, I added and received another quizzical look followed by a quick shake of the head.

“Have you not been listening to me? I said person, did I not? Person! Those who wear our harness no longer qualify for that particular noun being but mere animals in the eyes of their owners. There is no transitional period, no breaking in, no…” she paused and laughed. “Well, yes, of course, there is a breaking-in period; indeed, that is often one of the most enjoyable and entertaining stages for the owner or trainer and ultimately rewarding as the new animal is broken and tamed”.

“Less enjoyable for the animal, though!” Another of my ill-thought-out instant remarks and one she completely ignored, not even bothering to deliver one of her withering glances this time.

“AS I was saying before the interruption, there is no transition period. You remove the clothing from a new subject, secure it in harness, boots and bridle and, voila, one new animal ready to serve its betters for the rest of its miserable life!”

“Just like that?”

“Oui, just like that. A few minutes of being tacked up and then a lifetime to adapt to its new role and lifestyle. Instantaneous, and there is no appeal, no prospect of parole and early release, no more thinking and acting of its own free will, no more speech, no nothing other than the few, the very few simple things allowed by its owners. 

“Such as?”

That made her laugh as she considered for a moment and then pretended to count on her fingers. “Well, they can breathe; indeed, that is actively encouraged with plenty of healthy exercises. Plus, they can blink, smell, piss and shit unless plugged!” She shrugged and laughed rather cruelly, holding up her hands. “Too many fingers leftover, anyway what more do they need? In some ways, the creatures live a most pampered, carefree existence: no worries, no bills, no career, no decisions whatsoever to be made about anything. Fed, watered, valued and exceptionally well looked after bar the occasional, or not so occasional corrective measures to ensure compliant obedience to their otherwise stress-free lives! 

I thought about that for a second or two, then grimaced and muttered. “Well, if it were me, I would certainly have wanted to read all the small print in the contract several times over before I applied for such a post!” That prompted another thought as I said that. “Does that ever happen? I mean, do you ever get someone, some idiot masochist, actually volunteering for such a life. I mean willingly submitting themselves?”

“Oh yes,” she nodded. “It’s been known to happen, but of course, as you will appreciate, such incidents are exceptionally rare and as you said, well, even idiot is probably a very mild term for someone that foolish!”

I’d posed my question half in jest, so must have looked very dubious at her answer because she exclaimed. “It is perfectly true. I know of at least two such cases, and no doubt there are more. One involved the husband, the masochist half, in a domestic bdsm based marriage. His wife was also cuckolding him with various casual lesbian lovers, one of whom became somewhat less casual and introduced the couple to the delights of pony-play. The wife’s much younger and very possessive girlfriend just happened to know of a very discrete place with excellent facilities where subby house husband could prance about as a helpless pony to his heart’s content and suggested a long weekend visit”.

“What happened?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Need you ask. They arrived as a threesome with an eager hubby being escorted to the stable by a lithesome attractive young trainer who, unbeknown to him, just happened to be the younger sister of the wife’s lover. A few days later, a loving twosome departed, having enjoyed watching and participating in some very serious and advanced pony training. Not to say that they abandoned the wretch completely, I heard that they visited him at least once a month!” she laughed.

“Just like that?”

She shrugged again and waved a hand. “Oh, I expect there were all sorts of other things involved, tiresome bits of paper to be signed and witnessed all the usual legal stuff and various plausible explanations and then ’poof’ no more husband. In most similar relationships, the submissive usually surrenders all legal and financial control to the dominant half of the partnership anyway”.

I thought over what she’d just told me. I’d no reason to doubt it in any way, but there was one obvious weak point that I felt obliged to point out. “I’m not entirely sure that your interesting story qualifies in quite the way I meant. I assume that the husband had no prior idea of the real way he would be treated nor the fact that his weekend visit would turn into a life sentence!” 

My host pulled a face and stuck her tongue out at me. “Oh well, if you’re going to get all picky and pedantic with me. Humph! I suppose that it does not exactly qualify in the sense you meant, i.e. someone voluntarily opting to wear harness permanently in full awareness of what it would involve. My other case probably doesn’t fully meet such criteria either, although it comes closer.”

I grinned. “Never mind, I’m all ears, do tell!”

I got a suspicious look by return. “I’m not sure that you deserve it. Anyway, you are letting me get sidetracked again all over the place once again. Indeed, I’m not entirely sure that you are not doing it deliberately!”

It was my turn to laugh as I reassured her. “Not true, I assure you. Cross my heart and hope to die, honest! You can return to Celine later. I just find these little snippets of information you so casually toss into the story so fascinating, so I don’t think you should blame me. Now, do tell, who was the other unfortunate?”

She looked at me for a long moment as though debating something in her mind up then made a dismissive gesture with her hands. “Long time ago now, longish anyway, but you might have heard of the name or then again perhaps not, but I won’t mention it. Do your own research later if you’re that curious! Suffice to say, he was well known at the time in France but hadn’t made much of an impression internationally. My time period, but I’d never heard of him either till the subject cropped up when several of us were having a chat and coffee at an auction. One of the buyer’s present was the woman who’d acquired him or perhaps what little remained of him in the original sense by that stage. Knowing his owner, I doubt that there was much left of the handsome, virile young singer that had so wowed French Mademoiselles!”

Listening to her speaking so casually, I again experienced that cold shiver tickling the length of my spine. Fear, apprehension, horror? A mix of all and several other similar emotions, and not for the first time I wondered just how secure the ground was that I stood on or rather sat at this moment? Why had this, this evil, for there was no other word for her was there? Why had this evil little old woman agreed to spill all these beans? Why and what sort of a fool was I for even accepting this strange commission?

“Did you hear what I said?” She was looking at me rather pointedly.

“Er, no, sorry I missed that last bit, wool-gathering, sorry!”

“Tch tch!” She clicked her tongue a couple of times disapprovingly. “Well, you were the one who got me off track and asked me about them, and now you’re not even listening! Bored already?” She chided a touch peeved.

I smiled sheepishly and lied unashamedly. “My apologies, it just popped into my head that I still hadn’t made the appointment for my six-monthly dental checkup. Sort of momentarily sidetracked me, sorry”.

Her smile returned. “Ah, that I can understand. Probably one of those Freudian subconscious things. I still have most of my own teeth bar a couple of crowns which is surprising given the horrors perpetrated on my mouth by the sadist my parents used throughout my childhood and teen years. A complete horror with all the bedside charm of a, of a, well of someone totally lacking in such charm!” she pursed her lips and frowned. 

I gave her a sympathetic smile which she acknowledged with one of her own and continued.

“In retrospect, though, I must give him his due. He certainly instilled in me the necessity of regular daily brushing and not just before bedtime. It must have been five, even six years after I left home, that common sense plus a toothache prompted me to seek out another. Maybe my parents were wiser than I gave them credit for, as my childhood torturer must have been pretty damn good. Even after such a long absence, I needed very little done!” She paused and wagged the finger.

“Now you are really doing it, aren’t you. I’m not just going off the main subject but now going off the extra, so stop it! Anyway, on the subject of torture, let me finish the other story.”

I nodded and grinned, relieved at getting off lightly as the threatening finger retracted.

“I was attending an auction, and we were taking a break between the sale of males and the next session with females”.

“Ponies?” I interjected.

She eyed me for a second and then switched her gaze to the ceiling in thought before returning to me and answering.

“I can’t remember the exact circumstances, possibly or more likely a general sale they tend to be more frequent” she paused and reintroduced the finger. “So please refrain from asking about those; otherwise, you’ll be taking us both down yet another track, plus I’d be getting into areas where it would not be advisable to venture!”

“I understand”.

“Mmmm, I doubt that you do but never mind”, she sniffed. “As I said, we were sat out on a terrace and, ah now I remember, it wasn’t a sale, no, we were at…well that’s not important now. Anyway, someone asked about the fellow. Did she still have him in her stable? I must have displayed my ignorance, so I was told the story. The animal concerned, young man as he’d been back then was in private and away from his adoring fans somewhat less of an aggressive hip-thrusting suggestive masculine musical idol! Rather more of a submissive wimpy pervert and one whose inclinations led him to spend a goodly portion of his vinyl sales earnings enduring lengthy sessions in the dungeon of Paris’s finest Dom at that time,” she broke off and shook her head.

“I wasn’t going to say anything”, I protested.

“Well, it wouldn’t matter if you did ask who she was. The lady in question is dead now and had long since retired in comfort, thanks to that foolish young man. To him, she was a Goddess, whereas to her, he was simply a beneficial cash cow and by no means the most entertaining or interesting of her clients” she broke off and chuckled. “I gather that once his pants were down, there wasn’t much on show to justify all those blatantly suggestive on stage hip thrusts! Anyway, she bled him virtually dry very discretely, of course, cash only albeit in large sums and introduced him to one of her own interests”.

“Pony play again, I assume?”

She nodded. “Bullseye with your first arrow. Like a few other top Dominants, that woman had connections and was a regular patron of a private stable where she could park him and indulge herself courtesy of his record sales. Her interests being exclusively devoted to mares and fillies, and she had her own ageing mare stabled, so tended to leave him to the other stable staff. A case of easy work if you can get it! The foolish young man was naturally unaware that he was the only livestock item on the premises that wasn’t occupying a stall full time. Likewise, the only two-legged equine that was there voluntarily” she paused and grinned. “At least at first!”

“I think I can see where this is going”, I observed.

She nodded. “Of course. The young Monsieur took the same downward spiral many others in his profession before and after him have done. Drugs, alcohol, sacked his agent, became suspicious of all around him, particularly as he spent more and more of his dwindling income, paranoid even. That inevitably led to a deficit of new material, declining record sales, bookings dropping as he cancelled or failed to turn up for scheduled appearances and so on!”

“A falling star!” I mused.

“Precisely, and his ‘beloved’ Dom was not slow to notice. He’d been her main meal ticket for a couple of years, and now she saw him as the substantial final contribution to her retirement fund! She dropped the remote approach and became his most intimate comforting, confident. She persuaded him that the best way to arrest his declining career was to disappear for perhaps a year or so. Take time out to refresh, rekindle his creative spirit, and work on new material. Above all, to cleanse himself, free up his mind from all material distractions and then reappear fresh and ready to resume where he left off, reclaim his rightful spot on the pedestal of fame with both his old fans and a whole new adoring audience!”

I shook my head. “I take it that he didn’t just take off to meditate on a remote Himalayan mountain top or some obscure monastery in the Balkans?”

She chuckled. “Not quite, but the monastery suggestion is quite apt. That was the cover story, even held a press conference to announce his temporary withdrawal from the music business and intention to disappear to a remote religious institution to rediscover himself. All very convincing apparently at the time and with his full enthusiastic cooperation!”

“But in reality?”

“The idea of living a simple life as a full-time pony for a year or more appealed both to his submissive tendencies and his desire to escape from worldly pressure, plus it would be a pretty good detox for him. He’d get one afternoon and night off every week to live as himself, to write new songs, to think to plan his future, to eat normally, bathe, sleep in a bed and so forth. Plus, his beloved Goddess would be visiting him regularly, far more than she had when she’d previously stabled and then ignored him”.

I nodded and repeated my question. “In reality?”

“Sadism and an interest in the pony scene seem to run in families”, she mused. “Me and my niece, great-niece for example and I could quote numerous other similar examples. That particular stable was owned by a wealthy couple whose daughter had been a fan of said ponyboy, still was. The Dom he so adored sold him to them as an eighteenth birthday present for said daughter for a considerable sum, a very considerable sum. Hell, it's not often you can get your hands on someone like that and have absolutely no baggage or comebacks to contend with, is it?” she paused and chuckled. “Appropriate, for he never did make that comeback!”

I thought about it for a few moments and then sighed. “Gone and forgotten apart from maybe one of those ‘whatever happened to so and so’ articles or television programmes. I wonder when the penny dropped?”

“First couple of hours, I’d bet, certainly long before the end of his first week, I suspect. Ponies quickly lose all track of time, but in his case, well, suffice to say, I’ve done business with the daughter. I dare say she’d have had him singing again, long and loud well before his first agreed half-day was due, not that he would have been permitted it, of course!”

I looked at her and shook my head. There was a whole world out there, a secret world that was unknown and possibly unimagined. Was it unknown, though? Conspiracy theories abounded in society, so surely there must be rumours and hints that extended beyond those involved. Likewise, with those in positions of power and authority, were they people with influence who helped keep the lid firmly clamped on that private and very exclusive world? Did I even want to know specific details of that world, and I decided the answer to that was a very firm no!

“Penny for them?” She interrupted my sombre thoughts.

I dragged my mind away from those thoughts and about Googling for missing French pop idols who’d apparently retired into obscurity. That wasn’t why I was here, was it? I nodded and put my thoughts in order. “So let's get back on the main highway. Back to that first morning in Celine’s stable. You previously brought up the subject of ‘dumb insolence,’ as I recall.”

She’d been leaning forward and now sat back again, her eyes narrowing as they stared upwards as once more she collected her thoughts, nodding gently but more to herself and old memories than to me, I suspected.

“I remember the look on Celine’s face as she led that reluctant stallion out of its stall and into the centre of the stable. I’m not even sure that I can describe it, but I knew instinctively what the girl was thinking” she chuckled. “I expect I’ve had that very same expression on my own fizzog on many an occasion since that day”.

“Now that's not a very French term”, I interrupted with a chuckle. “Not even a very oft-heard bit of informal English these days, either!”

“What, Fizzog? No, I can’t say I’ve heard anyone use it recently either, but it just sort of popped into my head for some reason. Alright then, my face, if you're going to be pedantic, a sort of cross between extreme self-satisfaction and supreme confidence. That big glowering surly brute of an animal was following along like a terrified puppy, anything to avoid her giving his nose ring even a tiny tweak! Total control, and both pony and its Mistress knew it. No whip or crop in sight, just that long thin leash, that was all she needed as she paraded him backwards and forwards in front of me” She sighed and glanced at me.

“Another of those ‘life-changing moments’ I interpreted, and she nodded with a faraway look in her eyes. 

“Yes,” she said softly. “Another bridge crossed that immediately collapsed behind me. I’d bought my ticket for the journey that day in the cafe when I first met Celine. As I watched her parade that stallion before me, I knew instinctively that I’d arrived at the terminus and neither had nor would ever need a return ticket! 

“Dumb insolence”, I muttered quietly.

She nodded. “The hairy beast was seemingly so meek except for the look in its eyes. I was not too fond of the way that dumb, foolish creature looked at me every time it passed, and it wasn’t long before I had the opportunity to prove it was neither dumb nor initially all that meek. Plus, it became a whole lot more respectful! ”.

I raised my eyebrows questioningly, “Yes?” But she ignored me, her thoughts still elsewhere, as were her eyes starring right back at me but seeing an entirely different scene, a small smile on her face that grew broader even as I watched. I gave her almost a minute and then raised my hand to my lips and gave a discrete cough.

“Oh my yes, I soon removed that insolent look from his eyes!” She exclaimed, snapping out of her reverie, seemingly oblivious to that break in her narrative; then, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Interesting!”

“Interesting?” I echoed.

“Terminology”, she murmured. “How sometimes I say ‘it’ and at other times ‘him or her’. It must be your presence, I’ve never thought about that before, that's what I found interesting”. 

I blinked, thinking I must have missed the turning, for I was instantly lost, and no doubt the bewildered expression on my face said as much. It certainly made her chuckle for a couple of seconds till she took pity on me. 

“Terminology of the stable. That's what I was referring to and caught my attention. One second I will refer to an animal as ‘it’ and then use ‘his or her’ when referring to the same pony! What are they anyway, nouns, no pronouns if I remember my English lessons from long ago? 

“So what do you normally call them?” I mentally performed a quick U-turn and rejoined the bumpy highway of her thought process as the route became clear once again.

“Good question and not something I have ever really thought about before, not objectively anyway. Somehow referring to the creatures still in the ‘person’ sense continually invests them with something they no longer have, are no longer entitled to possess, that spark of humanity, a dignity that I will not allow and deny them at every opportunity!” She suddenly stopped and started giggling like a teenager. “Oh my, the average phycologist would have a field day with me, wouldn’t they if they chopped my head open and peeped inside?”

I nodded, thinking she’d provide enough material to keep a whole fucking conference of such people busy for half a year, criminal phycologists at that given the horrors this charming and innocent-looking elderly woman had perpetrated and evidently continued to commit!

“Anyway,” she continued taking herself in hand. “Once in harness, they are all ‘its’ regardless, and we use individual names, of course”, she paused and added. “Frequently rather derogatory ones or demeaning ones, often both!”

“Another aspect of the…” I groped for the right words, “the phycological change in tandem with the physical?”

She nodded. “Precisely. It varies from animal to animal naturally. No two people are exactly the same, not even identical twins, not mentally, so each animal is different. The methods I use tend to be the same, but every animal's journey will be different. Identical but different if you understand my meaning?” She paused. “Am I making any sort of sense? You know there are times when I feel my niece and the stable girls probably think I’m just a batty old woman! What about you?” She suddenly threw the question at me.

I blinked. “Do I think you’re a batty old woman?”

“Yes!” 

I grinned and promptly threw it straight back at her, “Of course! Mad, bad and…well, something else that I can’t think of that rhymes appropriately.

“Sad, I expect”, she offered with a laugh shifting herself into a more comfortable position in her armchair.

I grinned again, thinking it was time to head her off and shepherd her thought process back to shallower depths. “So, tell me about pony names who chooses them usually and then let us get back to Rufus the insolent stallion, named after the colour of his body hair, I suppose?

“Names, oh my, that's a good one!” She laughed. “Mind you; I’ll say one thing about two-legged pony owners. I’ve heard some interesting names over the years, but nothing like as crazy as some you hear of in the world or real horse racing. Double, triple, even quadruple barrel names, some even a whole sentence and a half almost!”

I grinned. “Only for official Jockey Club registration purposes with the relevant racing authority. They  inevitably get shortened down to something manageable by the stable staff and race commentators.”

“Some of our pony stables have themes, you know. One couple in the USA follow something similar to what the Native Americans used to do, perhaps still do. Usually, the parents named the newborn infant after something that made an impression on them the day the child was born!”

I had heard something along those lines before, maybe via one of those historical documentaries you find yourself watching when nothing else appeals. “Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse”, I murmured.

“Exactly, sounds a bit weird to our ears in the literal English translation, but when said in their language much softer and nicer”, she suddenly gave a loud laugh and grinned at me. “That same couple owned a splendid racing colt, one of the fastest that I’ve ever seen on the carting track, collage footballer or something like that before being harnessed. One of the ones that run with the ball, not those big ones who seem to spend the entire game bashing into each other. Know what they called him?”

I shook my head, politely refraining from saying obviously not!

She snickered. “This one will kill you. His name was, well I won’t even attempt to pronounce it, couldn’t anyway, too much like that silly place in Wales that goes on forever and ends in gogogoch, you know the one. Anyway, this one sounded beautiful, at least in the native form, had a sort of musical rhyme to it.” She paused again and winked at me. “They had a Native American girl working for them in the stable, daughter of a genuine Sioux chief, they said, and I assume she did an accurate translation job. The English version was, get this, she giggled, ‘some careless idiot scratched my blue pick-up truck in the store parking lot this morning’!”

I laughed politely, joining in her hysterical mirth. “Well, for what it's worth, I think I’d have preferred they’d also seen a sitting bull if I’d been that unlucky youth! Not that I suppose it matters overmuch in the overall scheme of things?” I added. “Does the name matter so much anyway?”

“Mmm, debateable, yes and no. Little things can count once you start to add them all up. In his case, they always used the native version, not the English, so at least his ears were spared, plus it was shorter!” She grinned. “Not that it makes one iota of difference in the long run, of course as you just said but imagine the first few months of your new life being known as Dumbo, Dopey, Floppy-Tits, Big-Balls, or a hundred other demeaning names! Think upon it.”

I did think about it. Fuck! These people, this woman, they really did strip you of your humanity, your self-respect, your personality, your very soul almost. The power of the name, such a little thing and yet? Your name was you as a person, was it not, your identity! I had a middle name on my passport, driving licence and birth certificate. I hated it and never used it unless absolutely necessary on some official bit of paper. Even then, I had to remind myself as to the correct spelling every time it was such a redundant part of my life. How would I feel to be continually referred to or about by that hated name, and that one wasn’t even humiliating or demeaning, was it? The fact that I hated it didn’t mean other people would laugh at it, did it? But to be known by some……

 “Hello, wakey-wakey!” A small age-spotted hand waved in my face.

I looked up a little indignantly. “You told me to think upon it!”

“So I did, but I didn’t tell you to go to mod off on me! I gave you a moment, and then I started telling you something else, and you took no notice. Sleeping on the job, are we, getting a touch bored perhaps?” It wasn’t a serious question, and we both knew it, so I ignored it.

“Okay, my ears are all yours; you have my attention one hundred and one per cent!”

“I’ll settle for the hundred, and you can keep the singleton, and of course, I have now gone and lost my thread!” She aimed a mock glare in my direction.

“Names,” I said, “we were on the subject of names for ponies.”

“Just testing”, she shot back with a mischievous grin. “Now, some ponies have lovely names, although I doubt they appreciated them. My preference has always been for natural things such as flowers and similar, vegetables even.”

“Turnip!” I immediately chuckled only to realise that my mirth was not being reciprocated, not in the slightest.

“I can assure you that young ‘Turnip’ found nothing amusing about the name I gave him, nor I expect in the four or five months he spent in my stable learning to be an obedient ponyboy” the voice was as chilly as the bleak look on her face. “The person who purchased Turnip wanted a gelding, so I doubt being castrated added anything positive to the animals overall stable experience, yes?”

Her query was probably in response to the look on my face at what she’d just told me. I was shocked and not just by what she’d just said but also by the matter of fact way she’d said that word, not so much the word but all that it implied. 

“Did you…I mean, were you the one who…?” I swallowed, still shocked at how abruptly she’d said what I’d just heard her say. I’d used the term evil a couple of times before in my mind but was that even adequate to apply to this tiny frail-looking old woman whose cruelty and depravity descended to depths I’d yet to imagine!

“The answer is no, and would you like a coffee? I know I’m about ready for one” she picked her cell phone up and spoke briefly to someone before turning back to me with that charming smile of hers. Given the latest topic of conversation, the word ‘surreal’ popped straight into my mind. I couldn’t even summon up a coherent answer, merely a sort of indecisive grunt.

My niece tells me I drink far too much coffee. Not good for me at my age; she’s forever nagging. Fruit juice, better for me, she insists or milk. Milk, blah!” She pulled a sour face and then grinned at me. “I tell her it's either coffee or gin, and to date, it's always been coffee, she’s brought me!” She chuckled and added, “No, I did not perform the operation, and it was done very professionally under proper, well adequate medical conditions. You don’t think I’d be foolish enough to risk losing a valuable animal, do you? Anyway, I’m a bit squeamish about certain things; unlike my niece, she’s a willing assistant whenever such procedures are needed. Come in, please.”

My intended reply was interrupted by that respectful tap on the door, and I waited while a swarthy looking young waiter in an immaculate white jacket placed the tray he was carrying on the little table in front of us. He withdrew quietly without saying a word even when my host thanked him and complimented him on the exceptionally speedy service.

“I must find out that ones name,” she said more to herself than me pouring two coffees. “Never says anything, nothing, not a word; perhaps he doesn’t speak English very well.” She passed a cup over to me. “I’ll have a word with them down in personnel if that's the case, see if we can help, some local language course or something. Oh, I just asked for coffee this time. I assumed you wouldn’t be hungry. Not after that lunch, I can always….” 

I’d just taken a mouthful from my cup and so waved my hand frantically at her. No, I didn’t want anything to eat, but I did want to get back to the subject at hand. Hell, once again, she was showing those two vastly different sides to her personality at one and the same time. Dr Jekyll and Mrs Hyde, or was it the other way around? I was about to pick up where I’d been interrupted when she put her cup down, waving a hand in front of me as though dismissing something.

“Let's not talk about that sort of thing just now. I confess I was not, am not one hundred per cent happy in my mind over such a procedure. Never have been. Another thing my niece thinks I’m a bit too soft about,” she sighed. “The girl prefers mares and filly’s, but she does own a big stallion, a very big one in all aspects that has proved extremely mettlesome, which is precisely why she bought the beast from its original owner. The poor thing knows that the day she finally breaks the beast into abject and irreversibly grovelling obedience will also be the day she turns it into a mare. Poor Marigold”.

“Marigold”, I grunted. “Isn’t that rather, oh, I get it!”

She nodded. “Precisely, start where you intend to end up. I told you about the flower names, didn’t I? My niece does not always follow my pattern with her own animals, but in this case, she thought the name suitably appropriate, not very masculine sounding, is it?”

I shook my head, “Nope”.

“She even has him…it” she stopped and chuckled. “Losing that battle aren’t I? Well, never mind.” She broke off and looked questioningly at me.

“Marigold”, I reminded her gently.

She stared hard at me for a second or two, and then her facial muscles relaxed. “Ah yes! Right from the beginning, she decked him out in a yellow harness, bright gleaming yellow the whole caboodle, bridle down to his hoofs, the lot. It's not quite fluorescent, but you can’t miss the beast when she has him out and about. The contrast is startling but quite pleasing to the eye!”

“Contrast?” I queried.

“Naturally, oh sorry, my bad as they say these days. Marigold was, well, we must be politically correct these days, mustn’t we?” She chuckled. “Marigold hailed from the West Coast of Africa, the dark continent as the Victorians used to call it, and he followed suit. One of the finest dark and glossy hides that I have ever seen on any animal. A magnificent brute in all respects, especially when she’s got him all oiled up. I wish I could show you a picture, but that's something we never do” she nodded at her cell phone.

“Security”, I muttered, slightly disappointed that I wasn’t going to see a picture of such magnificence! I knew exactly what she meant, though, for I’d lost two of the things in eighteen months. Once, my own fault for spending too much time editing an article on my laptop, then realising I would be late for an important meeting unless I got moving. I’d arrive with two minutes to spare, then realised my phone was still sitting in the condiments tray back at the sleazy cafe where it had amused me to put it due to the lack of space on the tiny table. Given the nature of the place and its clientele, I wasn’t surprised by its absence upon my return!

 Its replacement had been in my coat pocket when I started down the escalator at my local underground station one weekday morning. Peak packed travel time, and it had gone AWOL by the time I emerged into the drizzle at my destination station, but not without assistance, I suspected.

 Cell phones were not the safest devices to have compromising information on, even if they had some form of built-in security. I pondered on that for a moment and then wondered if some opportunistic thief would really be that interested in what might seem a collection of bizarre fetish pictures when looking primarily for any financial information they could extract before flogging the device. Then again, security was about freedom from danger or threat, wasn’t it?

“Precisely”, she interrupted my thoughts, obviously aware of what was going through my mind. “As you must realise, we are all cautious about things like that, and you can appreciate what a temptation it is these days, especially at events. The cell phone photo mania and selfie culture is everywhere. My circle has stringent rules, and taking photos is a strict no-no. I’ve been involved in the scene a long time now, and even I don’t know who some people are at certain big events. Faces to say, ‘Hi nice to see you again over a glass of champers, yes, names and details, no! Need to know, and if you do, someone will introduce themselves to you or similar, there are never any guest lists!”

My eyes narrowed. “Sounds like a security experts worst nightmare. People are people the world over, after all! Hell, trying to stop someone dropping a chocolate bar wrapper is virtually impossible!”

“True’, She conceded, “ but people with secrets, terrible secrets don’t tend to advertise the fact, nor are they idiots! Those that might be foolish receive zero sympathy” she shrugged her shoulders. “Didn’t I mention a rather foolish lady during one of our earlier sessions who did or attempted to do a little more than litter the street?”

I nodded, but my mind was already on another tack. “Events, she kept mentioning events, so there must be quite a few of them and by the sound of it well attended. Just how many people like her were there beyond that window. I was wondering, and not for the first time?

“Anyway, talking of big stallions, it's high time I ceased waffling and got back to Rufus the red and how I set about curing that insolent look in the creature's eyes!”

I nodded eagerly but was to be disappointed as she glanced at the clock.

“Next time, I promise,” she laughed.